#cw: minor whump

[shion-yu]

Ice Cream for Dinner

Chicken pox sucks. Some Shu and Alex father-son caretaking with a shocking lack of angst. This is pure fluff folks. To the anons who requested stories with Shu and Ryo sick, they’re in progress! But this is Alex’s turn, lol. 2,275 words, no TWs, CW sick 13 year old.

It turns out that having a kid in school for the first time means getting sick with every nasty school kid disease they bring home, and it doesn't matter if that kid isn't in preschool - middle school works just as well. In the year since Alex has come to live with Shu, Shu's been sick enough to miss work at least five times and had the sniffles on and off for the rest of the year. 

He doesn't blame Alex, who seems to find Shu’s pathetic immune system somewhat amusing as long as Shu's relatively okay. Shu would rather Alex not worry about him anyways. However it definitely doesn't soften the blow that Alex stays healthy almost no matter what. He was sick once with that upper respiratory infection but that was it - otherwise the kid's been the picture of health and Shu wonders how such a skinny kid has such an immune system of steel. 

"What did your mother feed you?" Shu asked him after he was diagnosed with yet another round of strep throat that had left him absolutely miserable for the past several days, but had somehow completely missed Alex.

"Mostly cereal," Alex said dryly. It came with a heavy undertone of 'if at all.' Shu sighed and went back to blowing his nose miserably. It seemed there was no secret there other than youth and a big attitude. 

It was annoying to be sick all of the time, but Shu just kept telling himself that at least it wasn't Alex. Plus, on the bright side, he had pretty much infinite PTO to spend on sick days since he'd barely taken a vacation in the past ten years working for the same company. His most important job was to take care of Alex and as long as he could manage that while ill, he could avoid calling his mom to take over. That had only happened twice so far, which seemed like a win all things considered.

With all of this in mind, Shu was quite eager to enjoy the days when he was neither sick nor being called into the principal's office to discuss the behavior of his unruly charge. Both had been true this week and Shu told Alex that they were going to enjoy the Fall leaves with a walk on the Hudson. Alex rolled his eyes and told him he'd rather sit at home and watch paint dry.

"Well, too bad because there's no paint to watch dry," Shu said cheerfully. "Unless you'd like to change our activity to painting your bedroom together, those walls could use it." A fresh coat of paint would hide all the plastered-over holes Alex had punched through. But Alex seemed to think a walk was less painful (or at least significantly faster) than painting a room together, so chose the walk.

It was a bit cold out and Shu bundled up in a scarf and his warm peacoat. He encouraged Alex to wear his own warm coat and a hat, but of course that meant Alex did the exact opposite and wore his light Jean jacket, no hat, and what seemed like useless fingerless gloves. Shu didn't argue though, he was just glad they managed to get out the door. 

It was a pleasant walk on the river side, despite the cool breeze. Shu was happy about all the bright orange and red leaves, something Alex wasn't that used to given he'd spent most of his childhood in California. Shu did the vast majority of the talking, but that was to be expected. However after a while he noticed Alex shivering and subtly cut their walk short by crossing the closest bridge and turning towards the direction of the car to complete their loop.

"Want my scarf?" Shu asked casually. 

"Nah," Alex said. He looked distracted and kept scratching the back of his neck. 

Shu kept an eye on Alex as they walked back and noticed Alex seemed to be dragging his feet more and more the longer they walked. "You okay buddy?" Shu asked him.

"I'm fine," Alex responded predictably and picked up the pace. Shu went back to talking about Avatar the Last Airbender, hoping Alex would relate to Shu's fondness of it since it was known to be a popular cartoon. "Will you stop? I don't know that show," Alex snapped irritably. Well, that didn't work, Shu thought. They fell quiet until Shu caught Alex trailing behind again, this time itching his head.

Suddenly the thought of lice popped into Shu’s mind. He stopped and waited for Alex to bump into him. 

"What now?" Alex scowled. 

"Anyone at school have lice? Or scabies?" Shu asked cautiously. Alex made a disgusted face, though whether it was regarding the vermin or Shu himself was unclear. Possibly both.

"I don't have lice," Alex snapped. "Those don't feel like this."

"Then what does this feel like?" Shu asked, leaping on the fact that Alex had inadvertently admitted that some discomfort was present at all.

Alex growled and started jogging towards the car. Shu tried to keep up, but the kid was way too fast for his own good. At least, usually he was, except today by the time he reached the parking lot he was panting as hard as Shu was. He looked pale - well, paler than usual - and Shu frowned, moving his hand forward to check Alex for fever. Alex yelped and dodged him, glaring. "What are you doing?! Don't touch me!"

"I wanted to see if you had a fever. Bud, do you feel okay?" Shu asked.

"No, I feel like you just forced me on a stupid walk in the cold. Let's just go home already!" Alex snapped. Shu tried not to smile at the use of the word home as it most certainly would not earn him any points right now. He relented instead and got into the driver's seat, making sure Alex buckled up (once, this was another heated point of contention) before he pulled out of the gravel parking lot. 

The drive home was about thirty minutes. Alex leaned against the door and pulled his knees close to his chest, making him look ever more childish. He was thirteen and as gangly and tall as a mung bean sprout, Shu's mom said, but he still acted like a kid. He wasn't mature and given everything he'd been through, Shu expected it might take him longer than other kids to get a handle on his emotions. That didn't mean it was easy to get through all the fighting and outbursts, but Shu told himself it was just something they’d have to work through together. Alex was already doing so much better than when he'd first come to live with Shu, after all. Progress felt slow at times, but it was there. 

Progress was Alex admitting to Shu as they pulled into the driveway, "I don't feel good." 

Shu made himself not-smile at Alex trusting him to know that and said, "Let's get you inside and in bed then." Alex went straight to his room and changed into comfortable clothes, then dove under the blankets, shivering. Shu brought in the thermometer and Tylenol and sat on the edge of Alex's bed. Alex was scratching his chest and looked flushed.

"Can we take your temp?" Shu asked. Alex grumbled but obeyed. 100.8. Shu cringed - Alex really was sick. Shu felt bad he'd forced Alex to go out for a cold walk with a fever, but he hadn't known. "Sorry bud, you're definitely sick. Now what're you itching, can you show me?"

Alex reluctantly dropped his hand. Shu delicately peered at Alex's neck and down Alex's shirt. There were a handful of red marks that looked like pimples. Shu tried to think of what they would be and came to a quick conclusion: "Alex, have you had chickenpox before?"

Alex shook his head no. Shu grimaced. "Well I think you've got them now." Alex should have been vaccinated, but Shu suddenly remembered the long list of 'religious' waivers Alex's parents had signed to get him into school with the bare minimum of requirements. He'd been meaning to get those updated but they'd just been so busy that Shu must have forgotten to reschedule that vaccine clinic visit they'd missed. Crap. If Shu remembered correctly, there wasn't much to do for chicken pox other than stop Alex from itching and keep the fever down. "I think I'll call the pediatrician. Maybe we can avoid a trip to the office for you, okay?"

That seemed to earn Shu a few points and Alex nodded. Shu called the doctor's office from his spot on Alex's bed and managed to get a nurse on the phone who went over the list of symptoms, which Shu then relayed to Alex before confirming or denying. Headache? Check. Sore throat? Check. Itchy rash that looked like little red bumps? Definitely. 

"Sounds like chicken pox, and if he does have them it's better you keep him at home away from any other kids at the office," the nurse said. "No school until the blisters are gone, about a week. Keep him from scratching. You can do Tylenol and calamine lotion and Benedryl but as long as his fever stays under 102 after meds he should be fine. Good luck." 

Shu didn't know if he liked the sound of her good luck, because that meant she thought he'd need it. Shu sighed and hung up. "Well, guess you've got all of next week off school," Shu said. "Any requests? Books? Soup?"

"I wanna sleep," Alex said grouchily. Shu had expected that. He made sure Alex took his Tylenol and gave him a bottle of calamine lotion to dot onto the pox and then left him alone to stew in his teenage misery. He was sure Alex’s friend Ryo would be getting a slew of upset texts any second now. 

Shu mostly tried to let Alex be alone like he wanted, but the problem was that Alex got bored very quickly and soon wandered out to the rest of the house, scratching and whining about anything and everything. Shu tried to remind himself that Alex probably felt like crap and wasn’t purposefully being a pain - probably. After Alex’s third pass through the living room though Shu made him sit on the couch and insisted on putting calamine lotion on Alex’s back where he couldn’t reach. He supposed it was a testament to how uncomfortable Alex really was that it didn’t become an argument.

By the next morning Alex’s spots had turned into angry looking blisters and he got upset every time Shu told him not to scratch. Shu tried to tape oven mitts on Alex’s hands like his mom suggested but Alex was too old to put up with that and nearly decked him in the face. “Alex, don’t hit me,” Shu said sternly. Alex glared but didn’t try it again. 

The fever was worse. The headache was worse. Alex could barely talk because his throat hurt so much. When Shu took a look down Alex’s throat with his phone flashlight he could see how red it was; google said he probably had chicken pox in his throat and that liquid Benadryl could help. He set Alex up on the couch and took a quick trip to the pharmacy, purchasing basically everything he could think of to get Alex to settle down and came home with two bags full of supplies. Alex was napping with the TV on, and Shu didn’t think there was any point in waking the beast before he had to so just sat next to him and let him sleep.

Alex looked particularly young with chicken pox blisters all over his skin and limp, messy hair that was damp from a tenuous fever. Shu sighed fondly as he watched him and thought to himself that this week couldn’t go by fast enough. Eventually Alex woke up, predictably grumpy, and Shu pulled out all the stops. He made vanilla pudding on the stove because that always tasted better than the pre-packaged stuff. He served Alex tea and Gatorade with a curly straw, which Alex called stupid but didn’t remove. He slathered Alex’s entire body with calamine lotion and probably gave him a bit more Benadryl than was strictly the correct dose, but he felt terrible about how miserable Alex seemed. The fever stayed manageable though, so Shu was able to keep him at home at least.

Around dinner time, Shu made Alex soup and served it on the couch. “How’re you holding up, bud?” He asked, sitting next to his miserable, blanket-covered kid.

“This sucks,” Alex croaked. “I hate chicken pox.”

Shu couldn’t help but laugh a little, which earned him a glare from Alex. “I know, it sucks a lot. But this is the worst day, it’ll get better. In the meantime, let’s have some soup.”

“I don’t want soup,” Alex grumped. 

“So what do you want?” Shu asked patiently.

Alex looked away, pulling the blanket closer around himself. “...Ice cream?” He mumbled.

“Alright,” Shu said easily.

Alex looked at him in surprise. “Really?” He asked, his voice rising one tone in excitement, although he was clearly trying not to get his hopes up.

“Sure. Ice cream for dinner it is. You get special treats when you’re sick, you know?” Alex hadn’t known, it seemed. Shu served him a large bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup and Alex ate the whole thing. Then he fell asleep next to Shu as Shu ate the now cold soup, a satisfied, sugary smile on the boy’s face.

#shionwrites #oc: shu #oc: alex #sickfic #sicknario #whump #illness whump #sick whump #chicken pox #cw: minor whump #parental relationship #hurt/comfort #oc sickfic #Alex and Shu

[somber-sapphic]

Training Day

〖Summary: Alex takes care of Lena while Kara is away.〗

〖Word Count: 1k〗

〖Pairing: Alex x sick Lena (platonic)〗

〖Notes: Please forgive me for my very little knowledge of military training. I've been trying to write this for a very long time so I also apologize if it's a bit iffy in places but I do really hope you enjoy it. Also were not discussing the title, I don't have anything better in me today.〗

Lena huffed and crossed her arms, glaring down the short-haired DEO agent in front of her. She had been forced to wake up at the ungodly hour of five am to beat Alex in a fight. For some reason, the DEO decided that even a scientist would need to go through the same extensive training as the field agents. 

It had started a few days ago and mirrored what she imagined Navy Seal training would be like plus a few extras directly on how to fight aliens. That included assembling special guns, a written test about which alien had which fighting styles as well as a basic course in how to treat different poisons the aliens might possess and which would kill you in an instant. These weren’t the only things but they were the ones she cared enough to remember.

The thing that had really gotten Lena was the mile swim. In what world would she need to swim a mile she had no idea but apparently, it was a requirement. She wasn’t a bad swimmer but she wasn’t fantastic either. She’d managed to complete the mile swim in just under the allotted time. The salt in the icy ocean clung to her clothes and hair making the experience all that much worse.

That was thankfully the only test of the day but it left Lena freezing, unable to warm up no matter what she did. The cold also reminded her of the scratchy throat she’d had for a few days and brought more attention to other symptoms that had remained milder. The barely sore throat quickly turned to something much more painful and it was like over the span of a few hours she had developed what she was sure would be an awful cold. 

Her nose was running nonstop to the point where she had just decided to hold a tissue against it so that she didn’t have to keep throwing them away. Her head throbbed with every beat of her heart and she’d wrapped herself tightly in a soft blanket before falling asleep on the couch, her hair still wet. 

None of that mattered. She couldn’t let it matter, there was just no time for that. She wasn’t sure when they would let her go through this training again. No matter how much she argued about her close combat skills she was still told that she needed to fight the second in command that of course being Alex. 

It had been a long time since she’d squared up against such a well-trained opponent and knew that in her current state, there was simply no way that she’d win. Her goal was just to go for as long as she could before either her body gave out or Alex got bored. She was hoping for the latter which would save her some embarrassment. 

So far that plan wasn’t working. Alex had pinned her four times, the rounds lasting only a few minutes each. The longest she’d managed to hold her own was five minutes and she knew that she’d need to prove she could last longer if she ever wanted to be officially allowed in the field. The field being her lab in the DEO.

“C’mon Luthor, let's go. One more then we break.” Alex ordered, raising her fists. Lena did the same, assuming a fighting stance. The world was swimming around her, making it difficult to keep her eyes focused on the brunette in front of her. She was trying to track Alex’s movements but the woman kept doubling and shifting, her movements glitching in and out of Lena’s view. 

When the kick swept her legs she didn’t put her arms out to stop herself much to Alex’s surprise. The young CEO began to fall, her eyes wide and bewildered. Alex reached out quickly and grabbed Lena’s wrist, managing to catch the bit of skin that wasn’t covered by her sleeve. 

Just by touching her wrist, she could tell that the heat was more than a normal higher temperature caused by exercise. Lena's skin was clammy and slick with sweat. As Alex examined her closer she noticed the red nose and hair stuck to her forehead with more sweat. Her friend was shivering hard, curling in on herself. 

“Geez, you’re burning up.” Alex moved the back of her hand from Lena’s cheek and laid her palm against the shivering woman's forehead. The sleepy woman sniffled quietly and shrugged, not speaking. She was too tired to talk, there was just not enough energy in her body to pretend anymore. 

“Alright. I’m going to take you home, did you bring a change of clothes?” She asked, wrapping an arm around Lena’s waist to take most of her weight. The younger Luthor sagged heavily against the agent, barely able to stand on trembling legs. 

“No,” Lena answered, offering no further explanation. Alex rolled her eyes, smiling fondly down at the woman she assumed would be her future sister-in-law. She’d seen the box in the drawer of Kara’s bedside table and her sister had sworn her to secrecy. 

“Okay. I’ll get you home soon, you won’t have to be in these clothes for very long. And, you’re showering as soon as we get back. You smell.” She teased, getting a little whimper from the woman leaning against her. With another eye-roll, Alex scooped Lena up so that she was carrying her bridal style. 

“Why?” Her charge asked, not hesitating to rest her head on Alex’s shoulder. She was pretty sure that she had no other choice, her body was utterly devoid of strength. 

“This is just easier Little Luthor. As soon as we get you settled I’m going to call Kara, alright?” Lena nodded, closing her eyes as she was carried out of the training room. She’d fought hard against this virus but for now, she was down for the count. At least she would have Alex there to look after her until the woman she loved got home.

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#sickfic #fanfiction #fever #sick fanfiction #fever whump #supergirl #supergirl sick fanfiction #supercorp #alex danvers #kara x lena #sick lena luthor #lena luthor #lena luthor sick #caretaking #whump #sick whump #minor whump #fluff #lots of fluff #cw supergirl #platonic

[whumblr]

Weapon

So, a lil while ago, @whumpedydump asked about Zayne working with Emery and why Zayne says it's better to be tortured by him than by Emery. Here we go.

Warning: Dead dove. Don't want to spoil, so if you're not sure, check the tags for warnings, if ya don't care, keep going.

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

-

“What the hell happened to your hands?” Jay gaped at the bruises and scratches over Zayne’s knuckles.

Zayne instantly pulled back and turned away.

“Punched a wall because I have to put up with your stupid questions.” His left hand – unconsciously – slid over his right, covering the worst of the bruises, the raw, reddish split skin, and lightly rubbed over it.

“Yeah, sure, a little one-two combo to a brick wall.”

“Now you’re just begging for a one-two combo to your face.”

“Just saying,” Jay held his hands up, “if you found someone else to torment, be my gu—"

Zayne sharply turned. “Don’t ask,” he snarled and pointed a shaky finger in Jay’s face. “Okay?”

-

“Did I say you could stop?”

“Sir, he’s… he can’t take much more.”

Zayne took another step back, revealing the man kneeling in front of him to show Emery the state he was in. He was quite sure that another hit would knock him clear out. Which, honestly, would probably be a mercy at this point.

The man barely had any strength left to stay upright on his knees, his clenched fists ziptied behind his back were trembling, blood poured from his nose, and even with gasps and heaves he couldn’t get his breathing under control.

Emery remained unimpressed and stayed where he was, just a few steps behind Zayne. He merely glanced down at the man, who struggled to look up but glared at him with all he had left. “Yes, he can. Keep going.”

Zayne hesitated. He felt disgusted having to do this. It wasn’t like he hadn’t beaten on someone before. But this was… different. Too random. Impersonal. He had no idea who the man was, what he’d done to deserve this, what Emery wanted from him. He’d just shown up to this warehouse as Emery had ordered, was presented with nothing more than a man tied up on his knees and the task to ‘make him talk’. That’s it.

But the man didn’t talk. And by now, Zayne wished the guy had actually passed out like half an hour ago. But he was stubborn, like a certain someone he knew. Emery, unfortunately, was also stubborn, and Zayne knew the guy was going to be the first to break.

And he had to do the breaking.

Emery never lifted a finger. He had others to do his dirty work for him.

While the man was obviously nearing a limit, he was not hitting a breaking point. He remained silent, unwilling to give up a scrap of information, and with the bits of strength he did have every now and then, just glared past Zayne right at Emery.

But Zayne felt that he was nearing a limit as well.

His hands were trembling and not just from the pain of bone striking unrelenting bone. But also from the sickening crunch that followed every strike, the blood that stuck to his hands, the grunts of pain followed by agonising silence in front of him, judging silence behind him. How much longer was this going to take?!

A coughing sound escaped the man’s lips, along with some blood as he tried to speak and Zayne found himself hoping he’d finally spill. But when the man found his voice he merely said:

“Yeah, man, keep going.” His voice was soft, tired, but the defiance in it was thundering loud. “Knocked out you’d get just as much out of me as you are getting now.”

Zayne peeked a look at his boss to see how he’d take this.

Not well. Emery’s face darkened.

“Your knife,” he merely said, narrowed eyes still on the man.

Reluctantly, Zayne reached into his pocket. He didn’t go for his actual knife, the one he used with Jay. That was his favourite, meant for play. This one was a spare, meant for work, to be put away after everything had ended and snap it closed to keep the memories of the job contained. All kept separate.

He held it out for Emery.

But Emery refused it and took back a step, making room for Zayne to stand over the kneeling man and positioning himself in just the right spot to watch over the whole spectacle.

Zayne wasn’t really sure what he expected. Of course he was going to have to do it.

He made a show of slowly folding the knife open, but his heart wasn’t into it. Usually he’d love the twitches of fear, the widening of eyes, the flinch as the knife clicked. Here he was just furiously hoping it would make the man relent. When he didn’t, he stepped behind him, kept him in place with a hand on his shoulder, and pricked the blade over the side of his ribs.

Last chance, man!

The man tensed under him, flinched hard when skin split and red soaked into the cut fabric of his shirt. But the warning by just cutting skin deep was not enough to make him either scream or talk. And before Zayne had to make himself go a step further, he heard a tutting sound.

Emery sighed, shaking his head, and stepped forward.

Before Zayne could pull away, Emery’s gloved hand was on his and pushed the knife deeper into the cut.

The blade sank in deep. Way too deep. Zayne startled and meant to pull back, but Emery’s hand clamped over his and actually pushed harder, dragging it along. The blade slid in up to the hilt, carving through skin, muscle, blood vessels; indifferent to what it severed. Blood immediately gushed free. A sickening scream rose up and Zayne had to force himself to keep the man down by his shoulders before his trashing made things even worse.

Emery finally withdrew his hand. “Stop petting him and get him to talk.”

With some effort – and with a disgusting squelching sound – Zayne had to actually pull the knife free. Blood kept running down the man’s side, sticking his shirt to his skin. If he had to dig that deep, the man would probably bleed out after about three or more cuts. This was no longer threatening a man to talk by torturing him; this was ‘talk fast or die’.

And the guy seemed to realise as well that he wouldn’t be able to walk away with this.

“No… no, don’t do that again,” he wheezed. “No!” He bucked again when Zayne held the knife under the first cu— he couldn’t even call it a cut; it was a full on open stab wound.

“Talk,” Emery said over the begging.

And something burst. Along with his tears, the man’s words spilled out of him, talking as fast as he could through gasps of pain and in-between heaving breaths.

Thank god. Zayne let him go and stepped away, relieved he didn’t have sink the knife in like that himself, that it was finally over.

Emery nodded, seemingly satisfied with the info he got. “Good.” And before Zayne could even fold his knife, he followed up with his final order:

“Slit his throat.”

Zayne froze up. “I… I don’t think that’s necessary—”

“I do,” came the cold reply, effectively ending any further protest.

The knife nearly slipped from his grasp. His heart skipped a beat and it felt like it just plummeted down into his stomach, dunking into the pool of dread that started to violently swirl around. It didn’t. After that world-stopping split-second it kept going, thundering against his ribs. Wide eyes shot from Emery to the man and back until Emery’s patience ran out.

“If I have to do it myself, I will do it twice. Do you understand me?”

Zayne clenched his jaw and tucked away all feelings before a hint of the despair whirling through him could slip free. When he turned his back on Emery, a tiny bit did slip out as he couldn’t help but glance at the two guards Emery always had with him, estimating his chances. Slim. And he had no doubt that the man wouldn’t follow up on his threat.

Something hardened inside him. Him or me. Or rather, him and me or just him. Survival instinct took over, wrapping all around him like a cloak protecting him. He did hear the man’s pleas, but the words just bounced off, like arrows against armour, never fully registering in his brain so that even if he wanted to he wouldn’t remember them later.

Besides, begging him was useless. He didn’t call the shots here. He was just the—

He stepped behind the man again, so at least he wouldn’t have to see the shock and betrayal in those eyes turn blank when— He firmly grabbed onto the man’s hair and dragged him back up on his knees, holding him up. All part of his determined, cold act.

But when he bent over, settling the knife just under the man’s jaw, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Then he let the blade sink in, immediately going in deep – letting him bleed out as fast as possible was the least bit of mercy he could offer – and he dragged the knife over his throat all the way to the other carotid artery, cutting both.

The trashing stopped as the finality of the act hit them both. The pull of gravity on Zayne’s hand turned heavy and he let the strands of hair slip from his grasp. The man slumped to the ground, wrists digging into plastic as he struggled against the zip ties as if reaching for his throat could somehow stop the bleeding, and Zayne looked away. Would rather look at even fucking Emery than watch the final moments of the man under him.

Emery watched impassively and with a certain disdain, cold eyes fixed on the man, following every twitch until he finally stilled. Then he abruptly turned and walked outside to his guards.

Taking just the slightest moment to compose himself, Zayne took a deep breath – that did fuck all like putting a band aid on one of those cuts he just inflicted – and followed.

Cold air swept over the river towards him. He didn’t notice the cold as much, but the breeze tickled over the cuts on his hands and he found that he was still holding onto the knife, fist clenched around it.

Emery glanced back at him, almost surprised that he was still here. “Someone will be along shortly to dispose of the body,” he said, tone dismissive and colder than the night air around them. “You are done for the day.”

A vague sense of immense relief that he didn’t have to clean this mess up hit him, but not as hard as it should. It was dulled, along with everything else. Zayne went along as if on autocue, making eye contact and nodding, hoping it would uphold a stoic pretence.

But as soon as Emery turned the corner, his mask shattered.

Every emotion that he had kept at bay all night burst free in a whirlwind of chaos, battling each other over which one would get released first. It was overwhelming. He didn’t know whether to cry or to scream his rage.

Because what even just happened?! Was he—did he just—

He refused to look back inside, just wanted to forget about that image as soon as he could. But even if he wanted to, to get confirmation on what he just fucking did, he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot. Completely paralysed, making him just stand there watch over the dark churning water.

The protective cloak of survival instinct ripped away. Immediately making way for something dark bubbling up, taking hold of him.

Guilt.

It clawed up inside him, whispering to him, calling him names, calling him murderer.

No…

No! This was not on him. It was not! It was Emery. It was all Emery!

If he hadn’t been here, Emery would have killed the guy himself. If Emery had called some other pawn to order around, the guy would still have been killed. Even if Zayne had refused, the guy would still be dead. And so would he. Every possible outcome ended up with the guy bleeding out on the ground.

This was not on me. It was on him, on him, not me! On him!

Because Emery already had his mind made up. And any bit of mercy Zayne’d tried to—

His breath caught.

If you hadn’t tried to spare him… If you’d just knocked him out… maybe…

No!

The blood was on Emery’s hands! Not his!

His knuckles ached as his fist clenched around the handle of his knife. Split skin burst open further, stinging, making him look down.

It wasn’t his blood… coating his knuckles, running over the flesh of his thumb.

And with a scream, he threw the knife as far as he could into the river.

-

Continuation here

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#whump #whump writing #reluctant whumper #tortured for information #beating #home is where the hurt is #emotional whump #hiwthi drabbles #hiwthi #my writing #bigger badder whumper #angst #posting makes this canon so I wasn't sure about this one #had this lingering in my word file for ages #cw death #minor character death #forced to kill #bleeding out #reluctant killer #tw death #tw murder

[sunshiline-writes]

COLORS OF THE END #2: Silver of the Knife

Synopsis: Isobele gets revenge. CW: Child soldiers, stabbing, blood, GORE GORE GORE, hallucinations, bug hallucinations, really graphic description of gore and wounds, cauterization, lady whump, Ben and Isobele's ceaseless bickering even as one of them is dying, pain, passing out due to pain, I think that's it??? let me know if I missed anything Previous | Masterlist | Next Word count: 2.9k

It only took a moment. A moment's distraction. A singular glint of something familiar to pull her attention away from what was important. A flash of something from her past. It was just a doll. A singular doll made from cloth. Clearly hand stitched. Peeking out from under a tent. Isobele didn’t know why it called to her like so, but she couldn’t help herself. She crouched, grabbing it, examining it in her hand. Ben and Jeremiah were talking on the other end of the camp, she could hear their voices. Talking idly about something she couldn’t be bothered about. 

Isobele heard him before she felt him. His foot rustled the tent. She spun around to face him, if she couldn’t see him, her power wouldn’t work. But she saw his eyes, he was already too close. The knife slid in like butter. Just beneath her left rib cage. It slid out just as easily. Her hand grabbed the wrist, twisting. He grunted, kicking her backwards with a foot to her stomach. “You killed the kid. He was.. He was just a kid,” he whispered as he turned around, ready to run. 

There was nowhere to run for him. Her breath caught in her throat. Hand covering her wound. She ignored the burning pain, the way every breath seemed to send more blood on her hand. She was ripped apart from the inside. Isobele shook her head, she needed to focus. Focus on what was in front of her. Push through the pain. She’d done this before. She could do it again. “I don’t see any kids here,” Isobele said, voice soft. 

The man's head was not hard to get into, she ripped through it with relative ease. A name was in the forefront of his mind. Julius. Not his name. His name was unimportant though. She just needed a few pictures, some images and she could create something new. Something horrifying. 

“All I see is you.” 

His own hands were covered in blood. Not his blood. It traveled up his arms, under his shirt, up to his neck. Over his chin, into his mouth. He was choking on it. He wasn’t choking, but he felt like he was, hands going to his throat. Scratching at it. 

No survivors. 

Bugs crawling over him, into his mouth, the hand with the knife, glints in the light. Silver and red. A reflection. The knife carves into the soft flesh of his throat, splitting it down the middle. The knife falls into the dirt. His hands dug into the skin, poking and prodding. Pulling. Strings of muscle and she could see the bone in his throat. His trachea was open to the world. Blood spills down his front, completely covering his chest. Honestly, it’s a wonder he’s still alive as he falls to his knees. Gurgling sounds coming from him. One last push, more feelings of something crawling there. His own hand grabbed his trachea, fingers around the bone, and she saw him pull. More choking sounds, and the light in his eyes dies. He fell forward, his hand outstretched. His trachea was in his hand, covered in red and bits of pink. 

Her job was finished and the pain came back tenfold. Her breathing was labored and she finally mustered the strength to call out. 

“Benjamin! Jeremiah!” she calls, grunting as she forces herself to a standing position. “Come here for a second…” Her world spun and she took a step forward. The pain shooting down her leg, up inside her ribs. 

“Oh shit.. Oh shit. Issy,” Ben screeched, immediately rushing to her side, arm around her waist, holding her up. “Why the fuck would you get stabbed at a time like this huh?” 

“What like I had a choice?” she bit out. 

“Could have gotten stabbed closer to the train. You’d bleed less.” 

“You’re a dick.”  “Guys stop,” said Jeremiah, staring at the treeline. Probably gauging whether they could make it to the train before she bled out. That would be nice, she was actually quite keen on not dying. Besides it would be a real strike to her ego if she died from something as stupid as a stab wound. As Jeremiah calculated, Ben got to work. Pressing his own hand to her side. 

“Pressure Issy. Lots of pressure.” Isobele hissed through her teeth, groaning. Finally she let herself lean against him, her world spinning for a moment. Vision going grey. She bit down the nausea in her stomach, crawling its way up her throat. She was so tired suddenly and she slumped forward. 

“No. No. Come on Isobele. Do not pass out right now. I swear to everything, I will kill you if you die.” 

Oh, full name, she was in trouble now wasn’t she? 

“We need to cauterize it,” came the voice in front of her. Jeremiah’s soft and still cracking voice. God he was so young. “She’s bleeding too much. We need to do it now.” 

“Yeah.. Yeah.. Do what he says. For once the kid is right,” Isobele agreed, as Benjamin started to set her down. He left her sitting up against a box of supplies, she held her hand over her wound. Her throat felt like it was closing. Why did she want to cry? She was not going to die here. That was just an embarrassing thought.  

She didn’t realize that Ben and Jeremiah were arguing until she looked at them again. Oh, she must have blacked out a little. Their words came flooding back into her head. “Jeremiah you have to. Come on. You have to heat up the knife, Isobele doesn’t have her daggers and even if she did she’s too weak to charge it herself.” 

“No! I don’t want to. I’ll lose control and.. and.. I can’t control it that well.” “Yes you can. You have to Jem. Come on. If you don’t she will die. Do you want her to die, Jem?” 

Jeremiah stepped away from Benjamin, who was holding the knife that had been used to stab her. It glinted in the light. Even covered in blood it still shined. Isobele found herself wondering if she could be like that too. Still silver even under the cover of blood. 

“You’re scaring him Ben. You keep that up and this whole place goes up into ash. Including us. I actually plan on making it back to the rendezvous. What about you? Calm down, take a deep breath. I’m not going to die here if you just think for a moment, idiot.” 

Ben turned to her, eyes wide, then he glanced at Jeremiah. Jeremiah was panicking too, breathing fast, static was filling the air. Slowly, Ben approached the kid. One hand snaked around Jeremiah’s head, cradling it and he pressed his forehead against his. “Hey kid, breathe. I’m sorry. I got scared. Let it get the best of me. Won’t happen again I swear. But you’re in control here okay? You’ve got it. Deep breaths and you can do it.” 

Jeremiah’s hand shook but he gripped the sharp end of the knife. Static in the air once again. There was silence for a moment before the knife’s color changed from silver to the orange of fire. Ben smiled.

“Good. Good,” Ben said softly, as Jeremiah retracted his hand wincing. It was cut and it smelled like burnt flesh. “We’ll get you cleaned up when we get back okay?” Then Ben kneeled down over her legs, lifting her shirt to reveal the wound. She winced as the shirt stuck to it. It was open and as she uncovered it with her hand, more blood gushed out. Ben hissed through his teeth, holding the knife over the wound. So close she could feel the heat. 

Isobele couldn’t look at it, instead she just looked at him. She looked at Benjamins brown eyes that meant safety. Swallowing thickly she nodded. 

“Do you need something to bite on or–” 

“Geez, just do i-” 

Isobele screamed. 

Her world went black. She was back home in her hammock, staring at the clouds. Silver. They were silver. Not clean silver like the knife she could see her reflection in, but a grey silver that seemed angry and tired. 

She came to in Benjamins arms. He was carrying her with his hands under her knees, the other around the small of her back. Oh god, she was never going to live this one down was she? She could hear him now. 

I saved your life, blah blah blah. 

Gross. She’d never admit to it. 

It was a slow trek through the forest, mostly quiet save for Ben’s slow humming of a song she didn’t recognize. 

“I can see your eyes open, I know you’re awake.” 

“Barely,” she groaned, “tell anyone back at base about this and I will kill you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, kill me when you can stand upright by yourself,” Ben said with a small laugh. He shifted her in his arms and pain shot through her body. Up in her stomach and down into her legs. She was on fire. Isobele whimpered and shook her head. 

“Ben,” Isobele whispered, “It hurts.” 

“I know. We’ll get you to Sonya and she’ll heal you up okay?” There was a tension in his voice. Worry? She ignored that. She always ignored it so that it didn’t have to live in her head that Ben cared about her. It was easier to deal with if she pretended that they hated each other.  

Jeremiah whistled lowly, signaling something. They stopped moving, listening, and waiting. A few seconds later a whistle came through the forest, sharp and loud. They all looked at each other, then stepped through the foliage. 

Zachary stood next to the train, leaning against the sleek metal flipping a coin in his hand. She never understood his obsession with that coin. They didn’t even use coins like that anymore. Only in areas where they held onto old ways, too afraid to change. But most people used batteries now, they were way more valuable than some old coin with a dead guy's face on it.

The man pushed himself to stand straighter, staring at them. The disappointment was written all over him. It made her stomach do a flip. Zachary was always disappointed in them. Somehow there was always something they could do better, something they could improve on. Nothing was ever satisfactory. 

Zachary walked up to them and looked at the wound for a moment, leaning down and pressing a hand gently on it. It set fire under her skin. She squirmed away and looked up at Ben, whose face was carefully neutral. Even if his grip had tightened slightly. 

“What happened?” Zachary asked, his voice smooth, brows furrowed in worry.

“She got hurt. We need Sonya,” Ben said, voice shaking a bit. 

“Jeremiah what happened to her?” 

Jeremiah seemed to appear from nowhere, stepping up beside Ben. Zachary always asked him for the truth, because he always told it. Jem was annoying like that. Always following orders perfectly and telling the truth. The good thing was, Isobele was the only one who truly knew what happened. She pictured the man’s trachea in his hand, covered in blood and muscle. There was a certain pride that she took in her work. In the way that she could make people do what she wanted, see what she wanted. She was strong enough to make a man tear out his own throat with his bare hands. She wasn’t strong enough to stop him from stabbing her first though. 

“I’m not sure, Sir. She was alone when we caught up with her. She had already been stabbed and the man was dead. Isobele killed him. Sir, he tore out his own throat. It was impressive. There was-” 

Zachary raised his hand to stop Jeremiah from speaking and the boy's mouth clamped shut. “That’s enough. Take her inside. I’ll have Terry set her up with an IV and pain killers,” he said sighing, “I’ll talk to you later about paying attention to your surroundings. You let someone sneak up on you. You could have died.” 

She almost did. Isobele cringed slightly at the reprimand. Ignoring the urge to hide her face in Ben’s shoulder. Resisting the urge to put a thought into Zachary’s head about crawling under the train and letting it cut him in half when it started moving. 

Ben huffed a breath, “Can we go inside now? She isn’t as light as she looks and my arms are going numb.” 

“You’re an ass,” she grumbled. 

Zachary sighed, stepping aside. Placing a hand on Ben’s shoulder and whispering something in his ear that Isobele couldn’t hear. Ben’s jaw tensed and he nodded, stepping up on the train steps and carrying her inside. 

__ 

The rest of it, getting the IV, everything was a blur. She blamed that on the painkillers. On the brightside, she was able to sleep through most of the train ride back. Sleeping ten out of twelve hours was something she didn’t do often and she was grateful at the opportunity. When she woke up, her head felt like it was filled with cotton. Everything blurred but there was one thing that was clear in her vision. Jeremiah, he sat in the chair across from her, one leg crossed over the other, book in his hand in the dim light. His hands were bandaged, again.

“Oh,” he said softly. “You’re awake. You slept a lot. Ben told Zachary to let you.” 

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, moving to set up, fire spread through her abdomen and she cringed. Maybe sitting up wasn’t the best idea. “No Sonya?” she asked. 

“No she’s back at base, she’ll heal you when you get there.” “Oh.” Jeremiah hummed, closing his book and he looks up at her. He’s got odd eyes. The kid had always had odd eyes. One light blue, like ice, the other so black you could drown in them. He had a soft voice, a soft demeanor. He was soft all around. Jeremiah was also stupidly tall for a fourteen year old. Or perhaps she was just stupidly small. 

Jeremiah leaned forward and pulled something from his back pocket. It glints in the light. The knife. The one that stabbed her. She reached for it, grabbing it by the handle and looking it over. It’s heavy, heavier than she thought. The handle is carved from wood. In the wood is carved a V. She thumbs with the sharpness, impressed. It makes a soft sound when she flicks her thumb across. Perfect. 

“Thought you might want to add it to the collection,” he said, shrugging and leaning back. 

“Yeah. It’s a nice dagger.” 

“Shiny,” he agreed awkwardly. God he was so fucking awkward. What was it? The murder at age twelve? Or was it just his regular personality? Either way it was fucking strange. Jeremiah was strange. 

“You’re fucking weird kid,” She commented, flipping the knife in her hand. 

“Thank you,” Jeremiah said, tilting his head to the side. “I have something else for you.” 

“What is it?” 

Jeremiah pulled something out of his front pocket. A paper. He unfolded it slightly and it came to life. A small paper crane. Perhaps a homage to one of their first meetings. When Isobele was a grand age of eleven and Jem was a shy eight year old. She held out her hand and he gently transferred it to her palm. 

It was an old memory, a fond one. One of her only ones when it came to Jeremiah. He hadn’t talked when he first came to them. Zachary said that he was just adjusting, Isobele believed that he just had nothing to say. It was after a particularly hard day of pushing herself, of training too hard like usual. She sat in the hallway outside of the arena, catching her breath. Jeremiah came out to join her. Placed a paper crane in her hand. 

She made it look like it was flying, and had it soar around the hallway. Just like now as she made it look like it was flying around the room. It flew by Jeremiah’s head, and around her own. It flew toward the window and landed on the sill. They watched for a moment before the illusion flickered and the crane stayed still in her hand. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. Something digging at her chest, making her throat close. Jeremiah was a kind soul. If he had the choice he’d probably never hurt a fly. Yet here he was, making sure that there were no survivors in a rebel camp. And gifting her silver knives and paper cranes. 

“I figured you could use something good,” he said with a smile, patting the bed twice and standing up, moving to leave. 

“You don’t have to go. You could stay.” 

“And do what?” 

She glanced at the book in the boy's hand. “Tell me about your book.” 

Jeremiah’s face brightened and he sat down again, starting to talk. She was barely listening, she just didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t seem to mind as she stared out the window. She thumbed her finger over the carved V in the handle, vaguely wondering what the name of the man was that she killed. That she made carve out his own throat. 

It didn’t matter, she decided, he was dead anyway. 

__ Taglist: @coyotehusk

#whump fic #whump #whumpblr #sunshine writes whump #child soldiers #Colors of the End #cauterization #superpowers #superpower whump #stabbing #GORE #cw: gore #cw blood #hallucinations #forced hallucinations #minor whump

[justplainwhump]

Walk-In

Creating a timeline raised some questions; here's an answer. Backstory on Blanca. This is a heavy one, please heed the warnings. It's not necessary to read to keep up with the plot.

Blanca signs up with WRU.

[Pet Safety]

Content/Warning: BBU; minor whumpee (she is 17; there is no whump in this piece itself though); human trafficking; mention of teenage pregnancy; implied discussion of abortion; implied parental grief. Everything discussed from the outside by horrible people. This is a heavy one, even though everything is only implied. Please be safe.

"So, Miles. Tell me. What do we have here?" Raquelle peeked through the blinds of her office in the back of the WRU recruitment centre.

A young woman, probably still a teenager, sat on the edge of her chair, swaying forth and back like a seedling in the wind. She was short, almost petite, but well shaped. Tanned skin, fascinatingly light eyes, brown hair in a messy ponytail. And soft lips that would make any man break a sweat just looking at them.

She'd bring in a fortune.

"Why are you even here talking to me, Miles? Seal the deal. Girl is perfect Romantic material. Sweet face, pretty lips, big tits, barely legal? Get that signature, right now."

Miles bit their lip. "She's, um. That's the point. She's not."

"Not what?"

"Barely legal."

Raquelle spun around with raised eyebrows. "Oh?"

"17." They held up a dark red passport. "Foreigner, too. Spanish exchange student. Unwanted pregnancy. Doesn't dare get home like this. Doesn't dare do anything about it, either."

"That desperate, huh?" Raquelle clicked her tongue and looked through the blinds again. The girl was beautiful. Provisions alone would probably pay her that five star vacation on the Seychelles she'd clicked away just yesterday.

"Very desperate," Miles affirmed, catching her smirk. "We'd practically be saving her."

"Well then. We need to bend one rule, we can bend three as well. I'll take care of the identity, and schedule an appointment at the clinic. You do protocol C."

Miles grinned, as they picked up one of the glossy leaflets from her desk. "Gotcha, boss. The right thing to do, huh." They left, a spring to their steps, while Raquelle pulled out her phone to call one of the more discreet contacts in her book.

By the time Miles brought the new trainee in through the back door an hour later, everything was prepared for her intake.

"I, uh. I want to do this, become a pet. Just... Please, I just don't want to be a Romantic," she said, with the cutest Spanish accent.

"Of course, dear." Raquelle smiled warmly. "You're safe with WRU."

The girl looked up at her from huge gray eyes, tears shining in her dark eyelashes, and brought up a shaky smile.

Raquelle almost had to hold her breath.

Yes.

400168 would be fantastic.

--

The video clearly showed the leaflet and passport in the girl's hands, her looking up at Miles, half confused, as they pointed at the leaflet with an understanding smile and accompanied her to the door. The video also very clearly showed her leave, and Miles watching past her with the most caring sigh.

"This is standard protocol," Raquelle explained and pointed at the screen. "She'd shown her ID, and of course we couldn't accept the application of a minor, let alone a foreigner. My colleague gave her our curated list of contact points for teenagers in dire situations. Maybe your daughter showed up at one of those? I'm so sorry. Maria seemed like a formidable, brave young woman. I'm sure she caught herself, and she's somewhere out there." She gave her most reassuring smile. "I do wish you all the best for your search, Mr Romero, Mrs Garcia."

She looked past the grieving parents to the pinboard on her wall.

Ticket to the Seychelles. She'd be leaving on Monday.

She promised herself to drink a toast to Maria Romero Garcia then. Maybe even two.

#bbu #minor whump #teenage pregnancy cw #unwanted pregnancy cw #human trafficking #grief cw #blanca #pet safety #pet safety backstory #whump of a minor

[whump-in-the-closet]

Raising Chaos.

cw: flogging, sadistic whumper, bad caretaker, inhuman whumpee, whump of a minor (chiar is 17), for context Chiar refuses to obey the orders of his. uh. employer and gets punished

masterlist.

***

The door unlocked. Finally. It felt like it had been hours since they had taken Chiar.

Syl brushed past the man who held it open. Blue shadows warped around his skin, buzzing with an irritation he could not hide.

Syl ran before Fain could stop him.

The entrance to the Yard was left open, allowing Syl to take in two things at once.

Two things that hit him with all the weight of a physical blow. The electricity inside him coiled tight in his chest, winding around his ribs, coating the bones in burning anger.

He desperately wanted to set something on fire.

The first: a discarded whip, blood-flecked and hanging from the wall. As terrible as any curse and far more painful.

And then Chiar chained by his wrists to the wooden post set in the middle of the Yard. He didn’t look conscious, his limbs hanging at odd angles and his back–

God.

He really was going to set something on fire. Syl was by Chiar in an instant. Close enough to hear the cryptid’s ragged breathing. Close enough to see there were far more than the ordered five lashes on his back.

Syl stepped in blood and gagged, bile rising up in his throat. The tiles were coated in blood.

Fain snorted derisively.

Syl ignored him. Forcing his hands to hold steady, he pried the leather gag out of the boy’s mouth. Gently, he brushed aside Chiar’s hair, whispering to him to hold on for me, okay? Just hold on.

He turned his attention to the chains around Chiar’s wrists.

“Let’s get you down from there,” he muttered. “You idiot.”

Chiar groaned, pressing his forehead into the wood.

Syl yanked at the chains, careful not to prod at Chiar’s damaged wrists. The bands were locked. Of course they were. He yanked at them again. It was pointless.

He could practically hear Fain’s smile, cold and bitter.

Syl whirled around, hands balling into fists at his side. “Get him down!”

Fain didn’t move. The key hung from one finger, swinging back and forth as Fain pretended to consider what Syl had demanded. Then he smiled. “That’s not how you address your betters, now, is it?”

The corners of Syl’s mouth twitched into a snarl. He glanced at Chiar, his back covered in those god-awful lacerations and snapped at Fain.

“That’s far more than five lashes you gave him! Now so help me, get him down, or I’ll fucking–” He bit the word off.

Fain was no longer smiling. He cocked his head, daring the boy to go on. To finish the threat.

Syl trailed off, inspecting the blood on his boots. Then, slowly, he spoke again. Carefully this time: “Can– can you get him down?”

Fain sighed in mock disappointment. “One more try, Westerling, I know you can manage this. It's such a simple thing and yet you manage to mess it up so well.”

Besides Syl, Chiar’s breathing picked up. Fast. Consciousness brought cramped muscles and the taste of leather and the smell of sweat– Chiar choked on it. And then the pain brushed everything else out of his mind. He cried out without really meaning to.

Syl stiffened. He worked his jaw in a tight circle, glancing at Chiar. And then he exhaled softly. “Lord Fain, please, let him down.” He infused as much venom into the words as possible.

Fain backhanded him. The blow took Syl by surprise and he stumbled, falling to one knee.

A handprint, violet-red, began to form on one side of his face.

“Almost there, Westerling. None of your sarcasm.”

Syl wiped his mouth and stood, eyes blazing. But he swallowed blood and dignity. “Please, Lord Fain, let him down.”

Fain smiled. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

One day, Syl would make that man burn. One day. But not today.

Fain unlocked the chains and Chiar slumped to the ground, Syl barely managing to catch him in time.

He was far lighter than Syl expected. There was blood on Syl’s neck and clothes as Chiar’s head thudded against his chest. Syl could hear the boy’s heartbeat, beating fast and hard against his chest.

Syl pulled the boy’s arm over his shoulder, doing his best not to touch his back. “Can you walk?”

Chiar struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on Syl. He nodded, refusing to make eye contact.

Carefully, Syl led him out of the Yard. With each step, Syl was sure Chiar would collapse, the floor spinning beneath him. The very air seemed to become blood-stained around them.

Bloody arm around Syl’s neck.

Bloodier breathing.

They managed to reach Syl’s room with Chiar still conscious. Syl breathed a small prayer of thanks to whatever gods were watching over him.

He lowered Chiar onto the cot.

“Lie down.”

Chiar didn’t move. He stared straight ahead, hands shaking.

“Lie down.” Syl repeated, snatching up his bag of medical supplies and slamming the cabinet door shut.

Chiar flinched at the noise. “Sorry.” Wincing, he did as Syl said, burying his face into the blankets.

Syl knelt down and grabbed a pair of small scissors, cutting away the remains of Chiar’s shirt. This completely revealed how deep the lash marks were. And how Fain had not held back in the slightest.

As Syl worked, he seethed, air coming in sharp hisses from between clenched teeth. “You’re an idiot, you know that? An absolute idiot.”

Chiar muffled a curse as Syl began cleaning the wounds, pain flaring up his back. Everything was on fire.

His voice cracked.“But– but you talk back to Fain all the time.

“Hold still! You are not me, Chiar. Stop acting like it. Besides, see where your tough act got you?” Syl’s ranting did not end there. “I can’t believe you! Do you have no self-preservation at all? When Fain tells you to do something, you fucking do it.”

Chiar whimpered. “Syl–”

“Don’t Syl me. It’s like you have a death wish.” He paused, “Alright, four of these needs stitches, the rest are fine if we bandage them tight enough. Hold still, okay?”

“Is it–” Chiar could hardly get his voice to work. “Is it going to hurt?” He hated how weak he sounded. How pathetically his voice carried up to a high note.

Syl rested a hand on Chiar’s head, messing up his hair. That was as gentle as he knew how to be. “Deep breaths for me.”

Breathing deeply hurt. It made his ribs ache. And it did not make the sharp pain on his back any better. The needle bit deeply and set trails of fire underneath his skin.

But the comforting weight of Syl’s hand in his hair in between tugs of the needle– that did not hurt.

Even if it was just to hold him down, Chiar found a measure of comfort in the small touch. It was a kindness Chiar rarely felt.

tagging: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast, @pigeonwhumps (lmk if you want to be added or removed!)

#cws above the cut #raising chaos #my guy chiar #syl westerling #whump writing #tw minor whump #inhuman whumpee #syl is such a jerk sometimes #good intentions but cannot act on them #also crytpids age slower than humans #so in 5 human years #a cryptid would age roughly one year #so by the time chiar runs from fain he'd been working for him for about six years #i think #my timeline isnt the most clean cut #anyway here you go #chiar in his natural state #aka suffering

[pigeonwhumps]

Laces

Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch

Fiona (aka Phoenix) tries to teach Alicia how to tie her laces.

(this was a little drabble for a discord server, but I figured I may as well post it here too)

657 words

CWs: minor whump (Phoenix is 8 and Alicia 5), child abuse, fear of punishment, threats, withholding food, disabled whumpee, slap

"I don't get it!" exclaims Alicia, throwing the shoe down in frustration. She can feel her eyes filling with tears. She's tired and she doesn't understand what she's doing wrong. Why's it not working?

"Copy me. You need to make sure the loop goes through, um, through the rest of the knot."

"We've been here for hours! I can't do it!" She throws the other shoe as well, and it bounces off the opposite wall, flopping onto the floorboards. There's no point in continuing to try if she can't do it.

"Please, Lissy. One more try? I'll give you a sticker if you try again."

She shakes her head, clutching her small lion. She can't do it. What's the point?

"Please."

"Stop it!" she yells. She doesn't know why her sister's pushing so hard. "Just stop it!"

"Alicia. Fiona. What's all this fuss? Stop it at once."

Alicia freezes and looks up to see their dad in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows slanting downwards. He's not happy then.

He's never happy.

"I'm teaching Alicia how to tie her shoes," explains Fiona.

Their dad raises an eyebrow. "Not very well, apparently. Get on with it. You know what happens if she can't tie her shoes by school tomorrow."

"Yes, dad."

"Alicia. You've dirtied the paintwork, no dinner until it's clean. And I'm taking that until you've learned how to tie your laces, it's taking up too much time."

Their dad snatches Larry the lion from her hands, and her heart screams. Fiona's on her feet immediately, before Alicia even has a chance to do anything.

"Stop it! That's not stopping her from learning, she needs it. Stop being mean!"

"Fiona," their dad says warningly. Fiona shakes her head.

"She's trying her best! You're a meanie!"

The crack from the resultant slap resounds around the room. Fiona reels back, stumbling over Alicia's feet. Alicia pulls her legs up out of the way, feeling guilty but not wanting to be hurt.

"Don't you dare talk back to me like that. No dinner for a week, and be grateful it's only that. When I was your age my father would have spanked me until I couldn't sit down for days for that disrespect. Do you understand?"

"Yes, dad," whispers Fiona. "Sorry, dad."

Their dad nods sharply. "Alicia, learn to tie your shoes and quit making a fuss. You're old enough to know how to behave yourself." Alicia nods. "And use your words in future, you did earlier with Fiona."

Alicia doesn't know how to explain that it's different with Fiona, that with her she doesn't feel so much like her throat's choked up and her words empty. And even then she can't always talk.

It's too late anyway. He's gone.

She hugs herself, unable to take the contact from anyone else but needing it, needing it, needing it. She needs Larry back.

"I, um, I have Gerry if you want him. I can't get Larry back yet, I'm sorry."

Alicia shakes her head, taking the small giraffe from Fiona and hugging him. Just breathing until she can speak.

"What's dad gonna do if I can't tie my shoes tomorrow? Is he gonna put you in the shed?"

"Doesn't matter. Um, we can stop for now if you want."

Alicia does. But she doesn't want Fiona to get into trouble.

There's a sticker sheet between them that Fiona has been using to reward her with, and she picks out a green smiley face, sticking it to her sister's t-shirt.

And then a gold star to go with it, because her sister's so good. She gives Fiona a toothy grin that she knows might cheer her up.

"Thanks Lissy. You're, um, good to go one more time?"

Alicia nods, and Fiona fetches the shoes from across the room. Her sister's hands are shaking as they move slowly through the steps, and she still can't get it but she has to.

She has to.

#whump #whump writing #immortal cannon fodder #phoenix oc #alicia oc #multiple whumpees #minor whump #child abuse cw #disabled whumpee #lady whump #their dad is a real asshole #and theyre only babies really #heed the warnings

[whumpering-heights]

Aftermath: Chris and Jackson fight

MASTERLIST

A/N this one follows about two weeks after this flashback. You guys really liked that chapter, so I felt inspired to write the aftermath!

Taglist: @pumpkin-spice-whump @octopus-reactivated @fanastyfinder @whumpy-arts-and-crafts @arsonfrogger @burtlederp @harri-00 @akito-fuckn-fear @potatoo-angst @sunflower1000 @whumpycries

CW: bullying, homophobia, gaslighting, emotional whump, Hero being a dick even in his younger years, minor whump (all characters involved are about 15)

Jackson heard Chris before he saw him: he chatted away at people as he made his way to the back of the bus, before throwing himself on the seat next to him. Jackson didn’t need to keep it free: ever since he’d pulled that “prank” on Amy, seats next to him were kept empty. It might be be his imagination, but he could swear that people stared at him in the hallways. And if the rumor he heard was true, he might know why. He kept his gaze on the grey morning through the window as his friend prattled on.

“Oof, I nearly missed the bus this morning. I swear, that driver has it out for me. Hey, did you do the assignment for math?”

Jackson shrugged. Finally, Chris took notice.

“You feeling alright?”

Jackson still didn’t turn around, but he made eye contact with Chris’s reflection in the window.

“Last week. Did you go out with Amy?”

His friend was silent for a moment.

“Why do you ask.”

Jackson tried to keep his voice level.

“Just answer the question: did you go out with her?”

“Yeah, what do you care?” Chris smirked, his braces shining like knives.

“Are you jealous of her?”

Jackson turned around in a flash, his face red, and punched him on the arm.

“Shut up!” he hissed, trying to turn his fear into anger. “I swear, if you say that stuff one more time-”

“You punched me.”

Something in Chris’s voice made Jackson freeze. His friend stared at him, his eyes wide and with a cold fire inside.

“Friends don't hit each other, even you should know that.” he said, fury making each word clear and piercing. Then, he stood up and went to sit with some other guys from his class. Hushed words were exchanged while Chris rubbed his arm and winced, and soon there were at least a dozen eyes aimed at him.

Shit.

----------

It was lunchbreak. He didn’t think Chris wanted to see him, and honestly, the feeling was mutual. He’d been holding an ice pack to his arm and whispering to people all day. Jackson  didn’t hit him that hard, did he? He'd just wanted him to shut up, but now he was starting to regret it.

He stood in the cafeteria, lost. He only really hung out with Chris, so who was he supposed to talk to now? Well, maybe it didn’t hurt to make new friends.

He walked up to two guys from biology and pulled out a chair.

“Hey, do you guys mind if I-”

“That seat’s taken.” said the one with curly hair.

“Oh, sorry,” said Jackson, and he went to grab another one.

“That one’s taken too, actually.” The guy with glasses said. He could barely keep a straight face, and his friend let out a chuckle.

Jackson looked at the five empty chairs.

“So.... they’re all-?”

“Yeah,” Curly said, shoulders shaking with the effort to keep a straight face. “I’m so sorry.”

Jackson put the chair back. “Y-yeah man, no worries.”

“No worries,” Glasses said back, in barely disguised mocking tone.

Jackson ate his lunch on the staircase. Like a goddamn first year, without a claim to one of the tables. There had even been a couple of younger kids on the stairs, but they moved away when he sat down. He hadn’t fallen below them in the pecking order, at least.

Still, he felt like absolute garbage. Had everyone hated him all along? Or was it because he punched Chris that his popularity went down? Chris was pretty well-liked, and Amy was too... He buried his face in his hands.

“Hey.”

He looked up to see Chris, his arm in a sling. His face was still cold and furious, like a marble statue.

“What are you doing on the stairs.”

Jackson shrugged and kept his eyes down.

“I didn’t know where else to sit, I guess. It’s quiet here.”

Chris huffed and went to sit down too. He moved a couple steps higher than Jackson, so he had to turn around and look up to see his face.

There was an awkward silence between the two boys.

“Did you, like... talk to Evan and Gus?” Jackson asked at last. They had been the two boys that refused to let him sit with them. Chris raised his good shoulder.

“Not really. They knew about what happened with Amy, so they might be pissed at you for that. I don’t blame ‘em, it was a dick move.”

Jackson frowned. “Oh yeah? Did they also know you sat me up for that?”

“Sat you up?” Chris asked, as though it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “What, like I framed you for it? Like a mafia boss? Sorry, I’m not that clever.”

Jackson turned around more, looking up at his friend.

“No, I meant how you made me do it.”

“Made you do it?” asked Chris, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Did I force you to? Me, force a big guy like you? At gunpoint, or what?”

“Stop that, you know what I mean! It was your idea in the first place!”

“I was joking!” Chris explained, speaking slowly like Jackson was stupid. “I was seriously, genuinely just joking, I didn’t think you’d actually do it until you were already gone!”

Jackson didn’t know what to say for a moment.

“...Really? Why didn’t you stop me, then?”

Chris rolled his eyes. “So first I’m forcing you to do things, now I’m responsible for not stopping you. You gotta own your mistakes, dude! It’s not my fault you can’t read social cues and took it too far. I already cleaned up your mess, by making sure Amy didn’t go home totally traumatized. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Jackson racked his mind. Had he really been joking? He did have an odd sense of humor sometimes... And he didn’t remember the exact words he’d used, so maybe he had misread the situation.

“Oh,” he said, feeling very dumb. “Was.. was Amy very sad?”

“Heartbroken,” Chris answered bluntly. “But luckily I swooped in to save her. She seemed happy at the end.”

Jackson was relieved.  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“As I said, you’re welcome.” Chris rubbed his arm again. “I could have explained this much sooner if you hadn’t assaulted me.”

Jackson winced. All this had been a misunderstanding, and now his reputation was bust. He needed Chris back in his corner like never before.

“I’m so sorry I did that, I promise I won’t hit you again.” he said. Chris looked down at him and hummed.

“Hmmm, I dunno if I wanna be friends with someone who jumps to conclusions like that. You didn’t even hear me out.”

Jackson felt his heartbeat rise. “I swear," he pleaded, "I’ll always trust your word before doing anything stupid, just give me one more chance! Please, can we be friends again?”

Chris thought for a moment.

“No.”

Jackson’s heart sank to his feet as his friend continued with a smirk.

“We can be best friends again.”

And just like that, thinks had gone back to normal. Jackson laughed with relief.

“You asshole.”

“Coming from you, that’s probably a compliment,” Chris joked. Jackson tried to ignore the way his guts twisted at that jab, though his smile faltered.

“Dude, please stop making jokes like that in public.”

“Relax, there’s no one here! But fine, I’ll stop.” Chris grinned. “If you let me copy your math homework.”

Jackson sighed and took out his notebook. Chris really did have an odd sense of humor, but he was his best friend. And he guessed that accepting quirks like that is just what best friends did.

#god chris is the WOOOOOOORST #i made the little fucker and i hate him #tfw a minor gets hit and it isn't even the whumpy part of the story #behind the masks #hero #vigilante #chris #jackson #emotional whump #minor whump #bullying #gaslighting #homophobia cw

[physsting]

Day 1 - Cannibalism

Goretober! I'm working off of @coyotehusk 's prompt list (and it's a good prompt list)! Go ahead and be using "space's goretober 2023" to organize this, do with that what you like!

Major warning for minor whump on this, everyone involved is a child.

Anna remembered the first time she tasted blood. Her hands were never where she thought they should be, and for the umpteenth time that day she'd smacked it against something, only this time the table had caught skin and ripped a gash across the back of her hand. It was...cloying. Metallic. Salty. Almost sweet, like chewing on the foil chocolates came wrapped in.

She always had to be told not to pick the scabs that formed over her many cuts and scrapes. She liked to chew on the inside of her cheek when she was bored, until that familiar taste could occupy her. And even fighting on the playground, when the bullies would push her down and call her names, she tasted blood.

She tasted it now. She wasn't...quite sure what had led up to this moment, but the salty-sweet metal filled her mouth and dripped down her chin. Her teeth sunk into something soft and chewy, and more of the delicious fluid filled her mouth. She bit and chewed, the soft fibers yielding under her teeth. Swallow, bite, metal metal metal. It stuck, and she dug her teeth in and *pulled* until it came away with a rip. Chew, smack, rivers of red, staining her shirt, her arms, her hands. She dug her fingers in and ripped away another sweet bite, sinking her teeth in like an animal starved.

Later, authorites would find the remains of the missing child, a ways off the path he was known to take home. The remains were scattered across an area of several yards, as if taken apart by an uncharacteristically brave pack of coyotes. Cause of death could not be determined and, although rumours abounded, police could not find any correlation between the young girl the victim was known to pick on, and the burnt clothes found in the family's backyard.

#space's goretober 2023 #cw: gore #whump #minor whump #goretober #goretober 2023 #my writing #my oc anna

[whumpinthepot]

👑 Who’s your fave? Why?

⛓️Which whumpee has been tortured the longest? Why won’t you let them GO??

Thx Red <333 from this

Im going to pick TSATS to talk about today

Whos my fave, thats a hard one…

My first thought it always Renay shes my main character and my precious baby ive had her for a really long time, but I love all of my TSATS cast pretty much… Ginger is close to my heart as well because lab rat baby, hes MY baby that is my child ive cried over his arc the most out of any character ive ever written so im going to have to say Gin is my fave.

Which whumpee has been tortured the longest

Coincidently enough its Ginger o-o my first thought is always zyan but only because what he went through was sadistically bad but in a short period of time. Gin was a more calculated drawn out slow burn kind of torture with Stockholm and brainwashing to the point that he didn’t see it that way. He’s a BORN lab rat, so he was put through it his whole life without even knowing the extent of how bad its been. He doesn’t know anything else, and comes off as eerily chipper… 😅

#ask #whump ask game #oc ask game #lab whump #ask game #breezy answers #TSATS #renay #ginger #zyan #lab rat #torture cw #breezys art #minor whump

[somber-sapphic]

Compromised System

〘Day 3- "What happened to that phenomenal immune system, huh?"〙

〘Notes- This is drastically unedited and thrown together at the last second. The colors are also different because I forgot to save them. Oops.〙

〘Summary- When Lena gets sick, she really gets sick.〙

〘Word Count- 550〙

〘Pairing- Sick Lena x Reader〙

〚Main Masterlist〛⌶〚Sicktember Masterlist〛

You sighed and tucked a stray lock of Lena’s raven hair behind her ear, out of her sweaty face. Her chapped lips were parted slightly, each breath a bit raspy. Every so often you would grab a tissue to wipe her runny nose, accepting the fact that the woman was in no shape to do so herself.

Lena wasn’t even protesting, in fact, she wasn’t moving. She would open her eyes every so often to prove that she was awake but didn’t seem to care in the slightest that you were coddling her.

You dipped the cloth that had been resting on her forehead back into the cool basin of water on the bedside and brushed it across her skin, wiping away the sweat. She smiled slightly at the cool touch and licked her lips, working hard on preparing to speak.

“Thank you, Y/n.,” Lena croaked, words a mere whisper over the sound of Titanic playing in the background. The brunette wasn’t watching, neither of you were, but she had insisted that you put it on before she collapsed into bed.

Not being one to argue with your girlfriend, especially when she was sick, you’d done as she’d asked. It was roughly three fourths of the way into the movie, and you were incredibly bored. When you had looked it up on IMDB and seen it was 3 hours you had hoped she’d fall asleep soon so that you could turn it off. That wasn’t the case.

“Of course, my love. What happened to that phenomenal immune system of yours, huh?” You teased half-heartedly, your heart heavy with worry and guilt. You had given her this flu; it had been your fault. Of course, you hadn’t been nearly as sick. Probably due to the wonderful care of the beautiful woman laying in front of you.

“Mmm.” She hummed, shrugging under the pile of blankets. You were being incredibly careful in monitoring the CEO’s temperature, removing, and adding blankets as her shivering changed in intensity and frequency. Thankfully, although she was basically a vegetable, Lena’s temperature hadn’t gone above 102 degrees.

“Yeah, I think so too.” You replied, repositioning the cloth across her forehead. She had fought you on it in the beginning, insisting that she was absolutely fine. That had changed after only about ten minutes of her being horizontal.

You could tell that she was beginning to drift off, finally giving into her bodies pleas to sleep. As you sat on the edge of the bed, watching her breathing slow and her chest rise with the deeper breaths, you relaxed. It was easier to calm down knowing that she was asleep.

With one more large sigh, you shifted to sit beside her with your legs on top of the covers. You settled back against the pillows and eased Lena’s head into your lap, smiling to yourself when she instinctively grabbed your pant leg.

Even though she was bedridden now, your joke about her immune system hadn’t been wrong. Typically, it was amazing, she could work for days without sleeping and crash for a day only to end up perfectly fine. You were sure she’d been back to full health in a couple of days and go right back to work.

Only Lena Luthor could go from miserably sick to bouncing around again in a weekend.

〖Join My Taglist!〗@lovelyy-moonlight, @bloomingflowersthings, @lots-of-pockets, @asiangmrchk13, @scrambled-brain-eggs, @juststuckhereforever, @fayhar, @chairhere, @canvascoloredin, @iliketozoneout, @goldenempyrean, @rantingsofahopelessromantic

#sickfic #fanfiction #fever #sick fanfiction #fever whump #supergirl #supergirl sick fanfiction #lena lesbian luthor #sick lena luthor #kara danvers #lena luthor #lena luthor sick #caretaking #whump #sick whump #minor whump #fluff #slight angst #lots of fluff #cw supergirl #lena luthor is hot as fuck #y/n x lena #reader x lena luthor #lena luthor x reader #reader caretaker #somber's sicktember #sicktember #sicktember 2023

[whereallthewhumpgoes]

Bad Memories

CW: Post-traumatic stress (like, a lot of it), bad caretaker (not like abusive or anything, more like B+ caretaking), implied minor character death, female whumpee, male whumper, male caretaker, whumpee is fidgeting with a gun for most of the drabble because she has issues, mentions of beating, strangulation, and solitary confinement

Whumpee sat at the dinner table, idly tapping her fork against the edge of her half-empty plate. The conversation swirled around her, individual words mashing together and turning into a chaotic blend of noise. She caught “shut up” somewhere in the mix, immediately followed by laughter. Were they laughing with them, or laughing at them? Her hand began to tremble as she looked down into her wine glass, pondering the face she saw in the reflection. Pale and thin, her clumsily cropped hair bleached an ugly blond in an attempt to hide herself from her former captors. 

Whumper had been the worst of them. Even as blurry as her memories were, she could remember that. She remembered him beating her, tearing her back to ribbons for no particular reason other than boredom and sadism. She remembered him telling her to be quiet, and then making her be quiet when she wouldn’t do what he told her to, choking the life out of her. She remembered being left for hours in a cold, dark cell, alone, all alone, for what felt like a thousand years, until she was practically begging for some company, any company, even Whumper’s company. The memories drifted through her brain in fragments, cutting into her will, making her hands shake, turning her breath ragged. She bit back a scream as she dropped her fork and it clattered to the floor.

“I need to go.”

She bundled her cloak around her and ran out into the garden. She could feel the eyes of the partygoers following her as she left. She could only pray that they wouldn’t worry, that Caretaker would be able to get them all settled and back to their silly gossip. She’d caused a situation. She hated to cause situations. Back when she’d been Whumper’s prisoner, causing situations meant getting into trouble, and getting into trouble meant suffering. But she wasn’t with him now. Caretaker wouldn’t do that to her, he didn’t have the capacity for that, she reminded herself. Except that he did. She’d seen what he’d done to the people who’d imprisoned her when he broke her out. So much blood. So much screaming. He’d told her not to look, but she’d looked anyway, and look where that had gotten her, drowning in her own memories.

 She sat down on the edge of the fountain and took out her small, rust-covered six-shooter. A gift, she remembered, this had been a gift, but from who? It didn’t matter. She began to fidget with it, twirling it around her finger as she loaded and unloaded it over and over, disassembling and reassembling it again and again. As she slid the cartridge back into place, she turned around to see Caretaker sitting right beside her.

“Jesus, Caretaker, warn me next time you’re going to pop up out of thin air,” she squeaked.

“You usually spot me a lot sooner than that. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just…bad memories.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

She wanted to scream and snap that no, no he did not ‘get that’. He hadn’t been trapped for days and days with nothing to eat, no room to even breathe in that horrible, cramped dungeon. He hadn’t been tormented day and night by madmen whose motivations he couldn’t understand, would never be able to understand. He wasn’t living in fear of being dragged back to that place again, too scared to sleep, too scared to even think properly. He had no idea what her world looked like right now. But she didn’t say that. He was trying to help, he really was. He just didn’t understand this the way she understood it. He probably never would. And maybe that was alright. 

She ran a hand through her hair, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm her wandering mind. “I…it’s not the way you think it is. It’s like…you know how I usually can’t remember my time with Whumper very well?”

“Yeah. I know that.”

“Well, it’s like all the blurry memories just went into hi-def. And I have no idea what caused it, but it’s messing me up.” She spun the pistol around her finger again, briefly checking to make sure it was unloaded first. “I’m trying to focus on the garden and the gun and nothing else, but it’s not…it’s not easy.”

Caretaker sighed as he hoisted his ukelele onto his knee. “I don’t know if it’s ever gonna be easy. I mean, I hope it is one day, but the shit you went through…it makes me sick to think about. And I’ve seen some shit in my day, but that…” He shook his head, tipping his feather-filled hat back into place when it began to slip off of his head. “I am not very good at this.”

“No you’re not.”

He laughed, and she laughed with him. 

“I’m sorry. I promise, I’m doing my best.”

“You know what you could do to help right now?” she stated.

“Yeah?”

“Play me something on that thing,” she said, gesturing to the ukelele. “I don’t know how much good it’ll do, but maybe it’ll drown out some of the noise in my head. Help keep me grounded, you know?”

“Alright.”

He beamed and began to play, his music drifting through the garden, up over the peach trees and through the rose bushes, filling everything with light and life. She leaned back and breathed it in, holding out her arms as if to embrace the song, drinking it in like water. She breathed a gentle sigh of relief as she wrapped her arms around herself, smiling as she stood up and began to sway to the rhythm. The fabric of her pinstripe pants drifted along the ground as she danced, trying to be happy to spite everyone who wanted her to suffer. She leaned back against an oak as the song came to an end, feeling strangely safe despite everything. 

“You feeling any better?” Caretaker asked.

“Not great, but not terrible,” she replied, popping her aching back. “Let’s go back inside.”

#female whumpee #minor character death #cw gun mention #whump #whump writing #whump drabble #i might turn this into a series later #who knows? #b+ caretaker

[onedayillmakeanamebutnotrn]

tw/cw alot of temperature whump so basically anything to do with that is here like ice fire burns etc, caretaker is accidentally the whumper, small heart attack mention + small implied nudity mention

whumpee got alot of funy temperature whump idk what is in the temperature whump circle but im spitting this out anyways cold or hot water poured on them and/or being the only kinda water they can bathe/shower with and once the temperature changes its ether get out, refill, refill with the opposite temperature (i heard u can get a heart attack from this) hand on stove forced to keep ice in their mouth (maybe with mints) forced to keep hot water/hot food in their mouth (maybe spicy) ice/hot water is the only thing they are allowed get hydrated from hot food is the only thing they are allowed to eat and if it gets too cold its too late (gotta eat fast too then maybe ohoho) dumped in snow dumped in hot coals no/very little clothes during cold times many clothes during warm times etc etc now they are with caretaker they have vastly different senses of temperature with or without whumpee having trauma whumpee needs to shower/bathe or even just wash their hands/drink any liquid with a very specific water temperature caretaker thinks that its far too cold/hot and changes it whumpee needs to have a very specific body temperature depending on weather/temperature caretaker thinks its wayy too hot or cold for them to be dressed like THAT like arent you making it worse for yourself?? whumpee gets a complete intolerance towards mint and/or spicy stuff caretaker wouldnt know yet and has some light spicy/mintyish food or snacks (maybe even the toothpaste is too much) also whumpee might have a fear of ice somehow but oh no its a hot summer day and i got tasty lemonade with ice cubes in it !!! fear might also include any kinda fire, snow the mf oven, stove or microwave bc it just radiates heat and,,ohno scawwy,,, up to you how long this lasts before whumpee goes "ur a different breed from me and we have different definitions of cold and hot so please stfu and let me shower in a way i think is normal"

#temperature whump #caretaker to whumper (not on purpose) #cw minor implied nudity #tw minor implied nudity #cw minor heart attack mention #tw minor heart attack mention #whump #whump prompt #whumpee #whumper #caretaker

[whumperofworlds]

Hook, Line, and Sinker, part 7

PARTS: 7/??

OTHER PARTS: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

TAGS: @painful-pooch @heyyitsworld @randomlifeunit

A/N: Kept on trucking, and already I'm close to ending this series! This is the most fun I had writing an original piece TBH, let alone a chaptered one! Again, thank you so much, readers, for checking this out and all the comments, likes, and reblogs on this! Without further ado, ENJOY!

WARNINGS: BLOOD, MINOR CHARACTER DEATH, INJURY, SLIGHT EYE GORE

______

"One bowl of gruel coming!" A guardsman's voice echoed throughout the dungeon. The guardsman--a lower one judging by his blue armor--approached the two cells, holding a bowl of cold gruel in his hands.

Alder was on the ground, his back still full of gashes from his torture hours ago. Blood had trickled down from his wounds, with red pooling around his body. While he was alive, he didn't stir when he heard the guardsman's voice.

The guardsman came up to Hawthorn's cell... and noticed Hawthorn lying on the ground. The man's eyes studied Hawthorn's unmoving body for a second.

There was no sign of breathing.

"Shit!" The guardsman cried. Dropping the bowl of gruel on the floor carelessly, he fumbled to get the key to Hawthorn's cell. As he was doing so, Alder overheard the commotion, and glanced up. Upon seeing Hawthorn's body, his eyes widened and he let out a gasp.

"Hawy?!" Alder cried. What happened? Was Hawthorn really dead? If so, how did he die?

The guardsman finally opened the door, and he rushed in. He knelt down to Hawthorn, shaking him.

"Hey!" He called, "Get up! I know you're not dead, you hear?!"

"I know." Hawthorn responded, opening his eyes suddenly, a smirk on his face.

Without warning, he got up and grabbed the guardsman by the throat, squeezing it. The guardsman choked out, trying to call for help from his allies. Hawthorn, in a quick motion, rammed him into the wall and the guardsman slammed his head on it. Multiple times.

After a few more slams, the guardsman went still. Whether he was dead or not, Hawthorn didn't care. He got what he needed.

He dropped the dead or unconscious guardsman before he began to dig through his pockets. His fingers eventually brushed up to the steel, and he pulled out the key to Alder's cell.

He left his opened cell and approached Alder's. As he began to unlock it, he saw Alder's eyes wide in shock. Hawthorn had done some things in the past, such as stealing, but he had never done anything like this.

Finally, after a minute, he opened Alder's cell, and ran in. He knelt down to Alder, assessing the damage Alder got from his tortures.

"Are you okay?" Hawthorn asked, helping Alder to his feet. However, the taller man stumbled and would have fell back down on the floor if Hawthorn hadn't grabbed him. "Shit..." Hawthorn whispered upon seeing how much pain Alder was in.

This is my fault. He's hurt because of me...

"Hawy..." Alder whispered, flinching in pain. If only Hawthorn knew white magic, he would have healed Alder on the spot.

"Hang on," Hawthorn whispered. "I got you. We're getting out of here."

As Hawthorn began to stand, Alder stopped him by not standing himself. Hawthorn looked at him, and Alder shook his head.

"No..." Alder said. "I will only slow you down. Go. Leave me here. Take care of--"

"Don't say that, Alder!" Hawthorn cried. "I'm getting us both out of here, and nothing you say will stop me!"

"But I am hurt--"

"I know, love," Hawthorn said, guilt evident in his voice. Thankfully, Alder didn't pick up on it as Hawthorn continued, "but I'm getting us both out of this no matter what."

This whole mess was my fault anyway...

He helped Alder wrap his arms around his torso, before he lifted him up on his back. Despite how heavy Alder was, Hawthorn managed to keep his balance as he ran out of the cell.

"I know where to go," Hawthorn reassured. "We'll escape this, Aldy. I promise."

_______

Hawthorn knew of the many secret passageways in this dungeon. During his few years of captivity here, he studied them, noting in his mind on where they are and where they go. King Brennus was an observant man--he had to make this escape count.

He pushed a loose rock that was near the entrance of the dungeon, and a secret passageway opened. He knew the risks--if he entered, he wouldn't be able to close the passageway, and the guardsmen would eventually notice and follow. But he had no other choice. The other secret passageways were either outside the dungeon, or were blocked off by something.

He knew that King Brennus would block off the others. This passageway was his only option.

He ran down the stairs, his heart beating wildly against his chest. Alder's body weight slowed him down somewhat, but Hawthorn was determined. They had to get away.

Adrenaline pumped in his veins as he continued to run towards the end of the small passageway, and eventually, he came across a door. Without a moment wasted, he opened it.

Light shone from outside, nearly blinding Hawthorn for a second. He paused, trying to adjust to the light. He knew he was wasting precious seconds but he couldn't just run off blindly. Literally.

Once he was adjusted, he ran off, Alder still in tow. Into the nearby forest. Where The Fierce Forests lived.

_____

It felt like hours as Hawthorn ran through the forest. He breathed heavily as he continued to run, Alder's limp body on his back not helping his breathing.

Apparently, Alder had passed out. Hawthorn tried to whisper to his beloved that they were almost there, that they were out, but Alder didn't answer.

This made Hawthorn hurry. If Alder passed out from his wounds, he had to get back to the fort that was deep in the forest to get him treated. Who knew how much longer Alder could hold on?

Despite how huge the forest was, Hawthorn knew his way around. Living in this forest for a few years could do that to someone. Left, right, left, left. Right, right, left, left.

He kept running. Left, right, right, left--

He stopped, his eyes widened upon seeing what was in front of him.

A river blocked his path.

Of fucking course... I forgot.

If he was by himself, crossing the river would be no problem. He had done it many times.

But with Alder on his back? It would be more difficult.

He had to find another way. Maybe if he ran back, he would--

"I see someone up ahead!"

"Are they the fugitives?!"

Shit shit SHIT!

The guardsmen were coming. How did they find them? Did Hawthorn leave behind something that led a trail?

Hawthorn turned, and sure enough, there was a small trail of blood that was up to his feet. Alder's blood.

"There they are!"

Hawthorn glanced up, and saw about ten men running towards the two. Their swords and lances were out, ready to strike down Hawthorn and Alder when they were close enough.

He looked back at the river, then at the guardsmen fast approaching. He didn't have any other option here, and he had no time to think.

I have no choice.

Without another thought, he jumped right into the freezing water. His head was under the surface for a moment before he emerged, gasping for breath. He touched Alder's arms around his waist and relief filled him. Alder was still with him.

He began to swim to the other side as best as he could with Alder on his back. Thankfully, the currents weren't strong, so he would have no problem swimming through it.

"Hey!" One guardsman yelled. "Get back here!"

Hawthorn didn't listen as he kept on swimming. Behind him, Alder's blood was mixed in the water, tainting it red. Hawthorn hurried his swimming upon seeing this.

Alder was losing more blood than he had realized. He needed to hurry.

"Someone get those two!"

"And swim in that? Are you nuts?!"

"You're a godsdamned guardsman! Why are you so afraid of blood?!"

As the guardsmen bickered amongst themselves, Hawthorn managed to reach the end, and he grabbed the dirt ledge of land. With as much strength as he could muster, he pulled himself and Alder up. Once his knees hit safe ground, he took a moment to take a few breaths. Surely, the guards wouldn't be able to--

Splash!

You've gotta be kidding me...

Hawthorn didn't even bother to turn to the noise; he was sure that the guardsmen were in hot pursuit now. He jumped to his feet before he continued to run. He was close. So close he could feel it. Once he reached The Fierce Forests' fort, he would be able to--

Searing pain hit his right arm, and he cried out in pain. Due to the exhaustion and the pain from his previous tortures, he fell to the ground. Blood began to slowly pool from his newly obtained wound. Dug deep into his skin was an arrow.

His vision began to fade, but he held on. He was so close. So damn close. Just a few more feet and--

He felt someone hold his body down on the forest floor, preventing him from getting back up. He saw multiple pairs of boots surround him, with their owners chuckling at their catch.

FUCK!

"Thought you could get away, eh?" One guardsman laughed, before Hawthorn could feel the weight lifted off of his back.

Alder! No!

He began to struggle as another guardsman picked him up from the ground, his hands holding his arms behind his back painfully. However, due to his strength being sapped from everything today, he could only struggle weakly.

He saw the guardsman who took Alder place him over his shoulder, and Hawthorn's heart ached.

He failed. Not only did he put himself and Alder in this entire thing, but now he ended up getting them caught. All he could do now was accept their fates, and hope that The Fierce Forests could save them before it was too late.

Alder... I'm so sorry...

The man holding Hawthorn held out a hand, readying a Sleep spell--

"NOW!"

A voice called out suddenly, and the man that held Hawthorn fell to the ground. Embedded in his left eye was an arrow, blood dripping down his face. Hawthorn also fell to the ground, and remained there.

The guardsman holding Alder also fell to the ground, dead. This time, by a Lightning spell that hit him squarely in the chest. Alder too fell to the ground beside the guardsman, still unconscious.

"Dammit!" One guardsman cried. "They're not alone--" Hawthorn heard gurgling noises before the guardsman could finish his sentence. Blood splashed on the forest floor in front of him.

He heard yells and screams, along with the clashing of swords and the crackling of magic around him. His vision began to blacken again, but he held on.

What's happening? Are we saved...?

The last thing he saw was a pair of brown boots stepping in front of Hawthorn before consciousness slipped away.

#my whump stories #caretaker #whumpee #whumpee x caretaker #escape #rescue #blood #injury #alder #hawthorn #alder x hawthorn #the fierce forests #minor character death #food mention #gore #eye gore #eye gore tw #eye gore cw

[whump-in-the-closet]

Merry Whump of May

@themerrywhumpofmay

May 9th- “We’ll burn that bridge when we get there.”

[collar | lost | roof]

***

(tw: lady whump, mention of past torture, minor character deaths, mention of dead bodies, gunshot, bad coping mechanisms— smoking addiction is implied)

Mal ran like she had never run before. The blood on her sleeves was not her own.

It was supposed to have been a simple con. They had promised the noblewoman nothing but the finest blades. The money would be paid upfront and then they would vanish, the expected delivery never arriving.

It was so simple, she had been allowed to accompany the crew on it.

But now she was running into the night, lungs burning for lack of air and eyes burning with unshed tears.

You messed up.

You messed this all up.

God, Xiang would kill her. Her leg twitched at the thought of what Xiang would do. There was a jaggedly circular scar in her calf, courtesy of Xiang.

Xiang had ordered an arrow to be shot through her fucking leg.

Mal didn’t know if she was more terrified of the dead body she had left behind or of what Xiang would do to her for leaving without the money.

The dead body with empty eyes.

Gold in her hair and blood on her lips.

The noblewoman was a corpse now.

And it was Mal’s fault. It was all her fault.

Mal stumbled to a stop, her hands clammy and stomach churning. The tell-tale signs that she was about to be sick. Which she was. Violently.

Light from an overhead lamp fell gently over her, its touch bronze and smelling of smoke.

The smoke didn’t come from the lamp– crouched just out of the circle of light, a man sat in the shadows of a building’s steps. He smoked a cigarette comfortably, the tip glowing with a dull light. He stared up into the sickly-coloured night sky and paid no mind to the person that had just thrown up all over the base of the lamp.

Mal ran her tongue over cracked lips. She looked behind her. There were shouts in the distance but she decided they were still too far away to be very concerned.

She walked over to the man. “Do you have an extra one?”

The man glanced at her, exhaling a puff of smoke. When he spoke, his voice sounded like it had been shredded. “Do you have money?”

“...No.”

The man smiled, closing his eyes as he inhaled the cigarette. “Too bad.” He didn’t seem to notice the blood covering Mal. Or he merely didn’t care.

“C'mon. I need one.” She needed the steadiness a cigarette would bring. She needed to keep her head together– to keep the image of a dead noblewoman in the back of her mind-- and for that, she needed a cigarette.

He didn’t open his eyes, but reached into his tattered jacket and pulled out one cigarette. He flicked it at Mal, who caught it with numb fingers. “Don’t expect a light from me.”

The shouting grew louder and Mal fled.

She turned a sharp corner, retreating into comfortable shadows.

A cat hissed at her from the sewers as she kicked up at water, splashing the small creature.

Mal winced an apology. She found a lighter in her jacket– thank the gods she never went anywhere without one– and shoved the cigarette into her mouth. Lighting as she was running was a bit hard, but not impossible.

She stopped only for the first welcome inhale of the cigarette. And for the exhale.

The alleyways branched into a dozen different directions, all lined with refuse and filth. A few were flooded. She turned to go back the way she had gone and was greeted with more shadows.

Lost.

Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to find her if she was lost. Well. There was really only one thing to do.

Mal sat down by the sewers and waited until the shaking in her hands had stopped.

The only light came from the glowing end of her cigarette, bright against the shadows.

Maybe if she had a cigarette during the con, it wouldn't have all gone to shit.

She had been on the roof. Watching for any sign of officers or guards or anything slightly off. Like Xiang had said. She had done everything Xiang had said.

Well, not everything.

Waiting on the roof. Waiting on the roof, bored out of her fucking mind. The noblewoman had been talking. Just been talking and talking and talking, and how was she supposed to know that a noblewoman was that good with a pistol and sword?

There had been a gunshot. And Dar was on the ground, bleeding, twisting in on himself. Yan had been run through with the noblewoman’s sword.

Mal exhaled smoke, staring out into the shadows.

She had left three corpses behind. Not just the noblewoman’s.

A dripping wet cat made its way down the cobbled street. Its ears were pressed back into its skull as it stalked past Mal.

Mal inhaled the cigarette and breathed it out her nose. “Rough night, huh?”

The cat ignored her.

“Yeah, me too.”

The cigarette was nothing but a stub and Mal put it out on the bricks. “I need to find more.”

I need to get out of town. Before Xiang finds me.

Mal flicked on her lighter and watched the flame. She turned it off and the flame vanished. Clicked it on. The flame appeared, impossibly bright.

On and off.

On and off.

“I guess we can burn that bridge when we get there.”

#sorry did not have a time to edit out the character's names and replace them with whumper/whumpee #also im not sure if this is lady whump #because its kind of just. dark. and angsty #she killed the person she was supposed to con and didnt even get the money and now her boss is going to murder her #but i digress #mwmday9 #themerrywhumpofmay #whump writing #lady whump #cw minor character deaths #cw death mention #cw implied murder #cw past torture #cw bad coping mechanisms #cw gunshot